of the old and the new
by asyouwishemma
Summary: Sometimes he thinks that's all he's ever done, though – failed his brother, failed his Milah, failed her boy – fail, fail, fail. But then he thinks of her and can feel the broken pieces of his long-darkened heart fall slowly back into place and knows that there's an exception to every rule. Speculation fic on the Season 3 finale. Contains spoilers.


He feels his hands (the reattached one still tingling in its unfamiliarity) tighten their hold on the reins, pulling sharply as the carriage halts to a stop, the fallen tree hindering the path towards the castle.

The prince (who isn't all that different from the one he's familiar with, yet different all the same) exits the ride, his guards closely behind, and Killian holds his breath, the silence almost deafening in its eeriness, the only noise coming from the horses, their cries becoming increasingly distraught.

And then everything happens at once.

There's a high-pitched scream – courtesy of Princess Abigail – and he stills. It's a wonder how he gets into these situations, continuously finding himself courting danger and then he remembers –

_Her._

It should bother him that every path lately seems to always lead him down the same end but it's hard to find himself caring at all when he recalls those green eyes looking up at him, arms entangled and three clicks of the heel, with such reverence and hope - _I've yet to see you fail._

Sometimes he thinks that's all he's ever done, though – failed his brother, failed his Milah, failed her boy – _fail, fail, fail. _But then he thinks of her and can feel the broken pieces of his long-darkened heart fall slowly back into place and knows that there's an exception to every rule.

He struggles with the need to lift himself off his bench and watch the scene playing out just outside his line of vision.

* * *

The story of the estranged princess turned bandit meeting her prince for the first time had reached every corner of the realm but, of course, as passing stories usually are, the facts were tangled, embellished and far from the actual truth.

It's his thirst of knowledge (and something akin to curiosity) that has him running, careful to keep himself hidden from the pair tangled on the mossy ground.

'You're a girl – '

'**_Woman_**.'

He peaks out of his hiding spot, watching as the bandit throws a weighted punch to the side of her prince's awestruck face, and he feels a strange sense of nostalgia in the scene - _why would I do that when I'm winning? _

He can still feel the press of her knuckles on his own and wonders if all love stories start off with a punch to the face.

And it's later when he realizes that the apple (oh, the irony) truly doesn't fall from the tree and the thought is enough alone to warm his heart.

He doesn't realize he's laughing until the prince walks by him with a pointed look.

* * *

It's a jarring moment when he catches his reflection for the first time.

The black leather he's accustomed to, the material long feeling like home, is gone. It's a bittersweet revelation in the sense that his attire had always felt like a second skin – making him feel stronger, finding it tougher for outside parties to break down a wall that's been 300 years in the making.

It dons on him, though, that he suddenly feels lighter, like the ever-present weight against his chest has been lifted and it's the closest he's felt to normal in a long time. It's with fondness that he thinks of the lieutenant that had promised, with the naivety of youth, to follow his brother to the ends of the earth and wonders if he could _truly_ go back in time, go back to being that person again.

But he notices the earring still in place, the rings on his finger a present weight and the scars embedded in both mind and body and it's with comfort that he realizes that the man he is now is a far cry from the boy he'd been before and it's all for the better.

He now finds strength in his broken heart and learnt mistakes, a constant ache that keeps him afloat when it once used to make him drown. It's with that thought that he straightens the lapels of his coat, a smile playing at the corner of his lips, as he readies himself for another day and thinks of her flaxen hair and what he wouldn't give to run his fingers (all ten of them) through it and hold her close.

If anything hasn't change, it's what has brought him here; his need, though no longer naïve, to follow those that he loves to the ends of the earth.

* * *

He can feel the anxiety beneath his skin as he stands in the courtyard, tending to the horses drawn to the carriage. The prince had been gone for a while, concocting a story about a market and finding something for his beloved fiancée but he knows, knows that he's going to find _her_.

If there's one thing the stories always got right, it was that the prince would always find her.

He tries not to worry too much, hoping that everything happens as it's meant to and that their presence hasn't completely wrinkled the fabric of time but it's with a drop in his stomach that he realizes that the prince has returned back to the castle, a satchel in his hands with his repossessed jewels, with a furrow in his brow that speaks of a defeated spirit and it's startling how familiar the look is –

It's one he's seen so often on his own.

He later learns of the prince's conflicted feelings, sitting by a campfire in the dead of the night. He speaks of the bandit's tenacity, her strength and how she made him feel alive for the first time in his life. That he could no longer marry Princess Abigail, settle for anything less than her, this woman that he met by chance. He speaks of their adventure, how he helped her escape the Evil Queen's guard, of tricking the trolls that riddled the bridge; that she saved his life - in every which way someone could possibly be saved.

It's the first time he's felt a true kinship with the prince, _David_, but it does little to stop his mind from wandering.

It's with a yearning heart that he thinks of his own saviour.

* * *

It's the first time he's seen her since they've been back and it sends a shock through him. He takes a breath, but can't ever look away, and it does nothing to subdue the fact that his heart is this close to beating right out of his chest.

The cloaking spell does little to hinder that he knows it's _her_.

The golden hair he's become familiar with is slightly duller, more of a honey blonde and curled on top her head.

The angles of her face are sharper; the curve of her hips wider, her lips plumper.

Her eyes don't look quite the shade of green he so adores but they sparkle all the same.

And it's in the way that she walks, a heavy set to her shoulders, with a stride that's more warrior than princess and spells of a misfit, of not fitting in. He figures that it's something she's dealt with her entire life, feeling out of place, and it was surely just another negative attribute to her time in the land without magic but here – here she looks like a _leader_.

It makes him fall in

* * *

love with her all the more.

He gives a slight bow when he catches her eye, the telltale signs of an uncharacteristic blush reaching her face and he takes pride that no matter where they are, and the _when_, that he can still make her smile despite the dire circumstances they seem to find themselves in.

He can feel the prince's wary eyes on him but gives little or no attention to it, not when he can feel the strings of his heart pulling at the sight of her. Always her. _Only her._

Later on, he risks asking for a dance but she declines with a mocking bow and walks away from him in their own practiced dance with an apologetic grin thrown over her shoulder.

The sting of watching her go has faded over time since she always seems to find her way back.

* * *

Everything seems to be going down hill – and fast.

The prince's resolve to not marry King Midas' daughter seems to have falter suddenly and the wedding plans are in full swing.

His attempts to pry information out of a brooding David are futile at best but he always did love a challenge and it's with that frame of mind that he sets out to do what he's always done – be a pirate.

_A drunken mind oft speaks of sober thoughts._

* * *

It works. Mostly.

He gets the story he wanted; Snow doesn't love him.

But it leaves him feeling hollow, while he follows a rum-filled prince along the outskirts of Lake Nostros.

The panic is starting to settle in and it's the first time he's felt that this plan, this journey to the past might not work. That they just messed up everything, that Snow and David would never fall in love, get married, have children – have _her_.

The idea is immediate in its effect, sobering and instilling him with new determination because he'd die before ever letting that happen.

_A world without Emma Swan is death in itself._

His train of thought is broken as he realizes that his feet have carried him wayward of the prince – a prince that is currently knee deep into the lake with his love in front of him, temptation itself.

It takes him a second before he sprints towards the water, his sword out of its sheath, watching David being pulled further away, falling into the call of the siren. His blood is pumping, every step reverberating in his head – _run, run, run_.

The creature is startled, turns her head towards him and for a split second he sees the telltale signs of _her_, _her, her_ and needs to get closer, needs to hold her, needs to love her; needs _everything_. It feels like a fever dream, a good one, and he knows he's smarter than to fall into this_ trap_ but he's also really tired. He can feel the weight of his many years crush him under and he just wants to feel peace, wants to be with her, wants to kiss her; wants _everything_.

But then the face warps as sharp as a blade and it bares its teeth, a sickening smile twisting the alluring beauty of the siren.

It's without warning that the prince quickly sticks the hilt of his sword deep into its belly.

The fantasy is wiped just as fast.

_Emma._

* * *

They don't mention what happened that night ever again.

It doesn't stop the prince from giving him looks, though, doesn't stop the constant litter of questions that Killian refuses to answer and it's startling that there's someone out there more stubborn than _her_.

But instead of being annoyed, it's reassuring and their bickering is a source of comfort. He's always felt more at ease with the David from the present, rather than Snow, because of the familiarity of not only Emma but of his long lost brother (both so similar, yet so different) and he smiles, wondering if he's resigned himself to constantly finding the most willful people to love.

It's getting closer to the day, the knots in his stomach growing tighter (and he chuckles, feels as though _he's _the one getting married) but nothing can compare to the nervous energy that surrounds David.

The man refuses to talk about the woman who broke his heart but he tries, tries so hard to make the prince understand that _love is the worth the risk_ but Killian also understands the need to ignore the hurt and hoping that someday it'll go away.

A broken heart takes _time_ to heal.

But everything's moving so fast and he doesn't have time, every minute ticking by is another minute wasted.

He wonders if she's faring any better but no wonder needed at all, to be honest.

If he knows anything, he knows that he's never seen her fail and it's the only thing that keeps him calm in these last moments before everything falls apart.

* * *

It's with bated breath that he sits there on the pew, his hands tightening into fists as he watches the scene play out in front of him. It was never supposed to be like this.

_Prince David and Princess Abigail._

The words leave a bitter taste in his mouth.

He can see the strained smile on the prince's face, the tired eyes, the sweaty palms; the usual symptoms of pre-wedding jitters but this is everything but.

It all feels tainted and he has to do something, this is _not _how their story ends (he refuses to believe that he will never meet _her_) and as the priest asks for anyone objecting to the nuptials to speak now, he finds himself grasping the pew in front of him, ready to stand –

The doors burst open and for a second, a ripple of fear courses through him, but then he sees _her_.

Snow White.

And he's never been so happy to see the blasted woman in his life.

Everything seems to speed up suddenly, his head whirling, watching as the estranged princess turned bandit professes her love for the prince and it brings a smile to his face (but definitely not tears).

A happy ending.

Now he just needs to find his.

* * *

He walks out the ceremony to find her there, the cloaking spell starting to wear thin, thinking that the dullness never _could_ conceal her beauty for too long.

The look she's giving him, the joyful tears streaking down her face, are what makes him step forward and gather her slight frame into his.

Time feels at a standstill, waiting for _them _to move now, and it never does take too long.

Arms entangled and three clicks of the heel.

It's like magic.

He opens his eyes, looks down at her green ones that he so adores, and they're covered in the fluorescent light of this small town in Maine.

It feels like coming home.

* * *

Later when they're wrapped up in bed (and each other), he asks her about how she convinced her mother to interrupt the wedding. She denies any part in it but eventually (with a helpful jab or two) tells him something about _leaps of faith_ and _trusting her gut_.

He smiles into the crook of her neck.


End file.
